Clearly defined in the dust was the imprint of the tread. The boys knew they were on the right track, but they knew that the thief was undoubtedly proceeding as quickly as they were, if not faster.
Could they overtake him?
Coming to a more level stretch of road, Frank risked a greater speed and the motorcycle leaped forward in a cloud of dust. There were many curves and the high trees obscured a view of the road ahead so they had no idea how close they were to the fugitive.
Owing to the roar of their own machine they could not have heard the clatter of the other motorcycle even if it had been only a short distance ahead. They could only trust to their own speed and to the chance that the thief had not obtained too much of a start.
Suddenly, as they swerved around a bend in the road, Joe gave a cry of delight.
In the distance, on an open stretch, half hidden by a heavy cloud of dust, a motorcycle was hurtling toward an expanse of paved highway that lay like a white ribbon far beyond the trees.
"That's him!" Joe shouted.
But Frank had already seen the dark object ahead.
He let the machine out to its fullest speed. He knew that if the fugitive once gained the highway it would be impossible to overtake him. It was now or never.
But the country road was deceptive.